The long immunotherapy journey begins

I am strapped to the drip stand

The long road of immunotherapy has begun.  On Wednesday I was summoned to Addenbrookes for the blood tests. One can tell one is in a Cambridge teaching hospital. Along one long corridor were a sequence of Searle-like cartoons depicting the history of the University (and the city) starting with its founding in 1209, when scholars fled Oxford after some of their number were hanged by the local citizenry, and working through a number of eminant people who studied or taught there. Another corridor is lined with quotations from Shakespeare, but to bring the place back to earth one notice pinned up read: Thank you for practicing social distancing. Being Cambridge, someone had crossed the spelling through to correct the American 'c' with an English 's'.

I duly attending the bloodletting room, giving several pints of the precious stuff, then they said I was all done. It is a long walk from the oncology outpatients to the carpark, but I was nearly there when my phone rang. "You were meant to see the doctor as well," said the voice, so back I traipsed. It was for very little. A young registrar asked if I was still OK, and tried to reassure me that I might not get any side-effects. Driving home through Hundon, a funeral cortage had assembled at the bottom of our hill. The coffin was in place in the hearse, which was clearly ready to move off. At the church as I drove post were many more black-tied or skirted people waiting at the entrance, with more walking down the hill carrying food for the wake in the village hall. It is the first funeral I've spotted in Hundon, but Mary-Anne says they are quite common, the village being peopled by so many elderly souls. She's a great source of comfort as I start my treatment.

 Today, I had the first course of immuno. The list of potential side effects is long and chilling, for all are common and potentially serious. In these days of uncaring Covid, Ann is not allowed to accompany me, and being a weekend the hospital was eerily quiet with empty corridors and a silent, deserted outpatients. Only the treatment bays were busy, arrayed with comfortable upholstered chairs, probably accommodating up to sixteen people at a time. The cannula was inserted, the drip started, and I just had to wait patiently for two hours while it ran through. The senior nurse, Nithia, had been there for sixteen years and was very professional and competent. She ran through a list of problems I might encounter, accompanied by a box of tablets for potential sickness and another for diarrhoea. There is not an organ in the body that might escape the onslaught, and I did feel progressively sick as the poison dripped away into my system. Perhaps it is psychological, but I was glad to take one of her tablets.

Afterwards, I drove to Edwin and Andre's apartment to pick up Ann. Andre was out visiting friends in Ely, but was expected back shortly and when the doorbell rang, Edwin said that must be his Amazon friend and pushed the intercom to release the main entry door, calling through the speaker phone "come on up, love." The man came up with a delivery and it really was Amazon rather than Amazon man. He threw the parcel at Edwin and fled rapidly down the stairs. Andre came in a few minutes later, to berate Edwin for chatting up another man. I was glad to get home and relax, for the nausea continues and I feel very washed out.